


Whipping Boy

by mytimehaspassed



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-10
Updated: 2010-06-10
Packaged: 2017-10-22 09:32:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/236616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mytimehaspassed/pseuds/mytimehaspassed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Castiel leaves you for the night, the next time you see him, he’s wearing the skin of a local biology teacher.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Whipping Boy

WHIPPING BOY  
SUPERNATURAL  
Castiel/Jimmy; Castiel/Dean  
 **WARNINGS** : spoilers for "The Rapture"

  
After Castiel leaves you for the night, the next time you see him, he’s wearing the skin of a local biology teacher. You only knew him as Mr. Shaw, you had him for your sophomore year of high school. In the dim light of the hotel room, you can see that his temples are graying now, his face is wrinkled with laughter lines. He speaks with Castiel’s mannerisms, but it’s the voice that used to tell you how to outline cell walls. It’s the voice that used to ask you questions about phylum and class.

It’s not the voice that Castiel used to call you from the radio, to ask you to place your hand in boiling water, the voice that made your ears bleed.

Castiel says, “He prayed for this.”

You know that he did, you know how he must have looked, too, maybe the way you looked, standing outside on your front porch, begging God, begging Castiel to take you, to give you what you want. You know Castiel would never take this man like the demons took your wife, it’s just not how it works.

Castiel says, “It’s in his blood like it’s in your blood.”

Castiel speaks with Mr. Shaw’s mouth and Mr. Shaw’s voice, but its Castiel all the same, tilting his head to the side and watching you bring your hand up to your eyes, watching you take shallow breaths until the nausea that’s climbing up your throat settles back down.

Castiel is going to be near you the rest of your life, but you kind of liked it better when he was inside your skin, when you could close your eyes and never feel like your bones were wearing exhaustion. Like you might crumple to the floor here, your knees shaking where they stand. When he left you, you felt this ache in the pit of your stomach that never had the right to be there in the first place, and when Castiel touches you now with Mr. Shaw’s hands, his fingers gripping your shoulder, you feel the ache sharpen and grow, swallowing your breath with it.

Castiel says, “You asked for this.”

And you did, you did. But you never asked him to take somebody else.

Castiel and Mr. Shaw’s hand on your shoulder, Mr. Shaw’s face so close to yours, Castiel says, “You wanted this.”

“Please,” you say. And your voice is your own again, your hands are your own, shaped like fists by your side, but you still don’t feel like yourself. You still don’t feel like you’re you. “Please don’t leave.”

Mr. Shaw’s fingers find your neck and Castiel nods his head, looks right through you. “I will stay.” His fingers are warm, but it’s Mr. Shaw’s touch, not Castiel’s, that you’re feeling. It’s Mr. Shaw’s touch on your shoulder that has you sinking to the bed beneath you, the pain circling and deadening and becoming softer, less raw. Mr. Shaw’s touch that has you breathing slow, breathing soft, falling and falling deep into the darkness, Castiel’s voice still in your ear.

***

Later, you say, “What will you do with him?” You mean Mr. Shaw.

This is all just a favor to you, really. Castiel letting you off the hook for one night, just one night, so maybe you could feel like you’re a human being for a little bit, feel like somebody with some semblance of control over your life before he puts you back in the box. You had to beg him before he would even let you speak, before he would even consider. You had to beg him to use your own body again.

Castiel says, “I will return him once he’s finished serving the Lord.” He’s lying next to you, Mr. Shaw’s hands folded neatly on his stomach, Castiel propping Mr. Shaw’s head up against the wall.

“You mean once you can get back inside me.”

Castiel turns Mr. Shaw’s head to look at you. “Yes,” he says.

You furrow your brows, your mouth in one stern line. “As long as you don’t hurt him in any way.”

Castiel looks at you, and you roll your eyes. You know he never would, know that even though God would let one soldier die on the frontlines for the greater good, Castiel could never allow that, would never allow that, no matter what his orders were.

You’re feeling better at least, sitting up from the bed and breathing through your nose. The place inside you that Castiel left behind still aches, but it’s duller now, not as fresh, and your tongue feels heavy inside your mouth, that cotton ball taste of dehydration.

You need a drink.

You slide off the bed, your hands barely touching Mr. Shaw’s skin and Castiel raises an eyebrow. “Where’s the nearest bar,” you say, smoothing down the front of your shirt, smoothing down your tie. Stupid suit, stupid trench coat. God could have at least given you another set of clothes.

You blink and Mr. Shaw is in front of you. You never even see him get off the bed, Castiel moving his skin like lightning to your side. “Why?” Mr. Shaw’s voice asks, and you sigh.

“I haven’t had a beer since,” and you falter. Since Amelia. Since Claire. You look away. “I just need. I just need something,” you say. Something to take your mind off of everything, nothing. Something to heal the ache inside you where Castiel tore free.

Castiel seems to understand like he always understands and nods once, and suddenly you feel like a child again, seeking permission for the smallest things. Your mouth turns sour, but you bite down on your tongue so you don’t say anything, just in case, just in case he takes this away.

Castiel tilts his head, studying you and your stuttering movements, and he presses Mr. Shaw’s lips together, not ready to say anything yet. Which is good enough, because you don’t think you’ll ever be ready to hear what he has to say.

You flex your hands once, twice, and then you shrug your shoulders. “Well,” you say. “Let’s go then.”

***

You’re on your seventh beer. Castiel has had nothing all night, doesn’t need it, and the bartender has been shooting him “buy something or get out” looks. You laugh and Castiel turns Mr. Shaw’s head toward the sound. “What is it,” he says in Mr. Shaw’s voice.

And you ignore him, say instead, “What’s with you and Dean?”

Castiel doesn’t let you watch much, doesn’t let you out from the place where he keeps you, somewhere dark and hidden deep down inside you, doesn’t let you know what God’s plans are, what Castiel’s plans are, but he does give you some things. And he’s been giving you a lot of Dean lately.

You feel it every time Castiel sees him, your mind and your body so unconnected, but you still you feel it, the way Castiel looks at him, the way Castiel talks to him, like there’s no one else. Like you’re not even there, even when it’s your own body, even when it’s your skin flushing and prickling with emotion, even with Castiel’s sight and Castiel’s voice. Even when you can feel what he feels.

You take another swallow, ignoring Castiel’s puzzled glance, and you say, “You two dance around each other like teenagers.” And Castiel is so far from understanding, but you don’t care, shaking your head, laying your hand flat on the table in front of you. “I don’t even wanna know what you’ve been doing with my body when I’m not around.”

And it’s not really funny, but you’re not angry. Not really.

You might not have known what you were choosing the first time you asked Castiel to help you serve the Lord the way He intended, the way you were supposed to, but you know now, and you chose it the second time around. This is all your own doing; you can’t really blame Castiel for needing you. It’s much less than you need him, anyway.

Castiel says, “Dean and I,” but he stops. Won’t say anything else, can’t say anything else. And you know that it’s more than just God listening, more than just the other angels. It’s that he’ll never be able to explain something like that to someone like you, not when you have such a limited vocabulary, not when he could never be able describe it with Mr. Shaw’s voice.

You nod your head, your eyes on Mr. Shaw’s, and you pat the back of his hand, feel the spider web of veins and muscle and the wrinkled skin underneath yours. You smile and suddenly Castiel knows and you blink and the bar is gone. You’re back in the motel room, falling onto the bed with a rush of blood coursing straight through your head. “Ow,” you say, reaching up to rub your brow.

“I am sorry,” Castiel says. “You were going to attract undue attention,” he explains, but you wave a hand that flops more than waves, your breathing already turning ragged and heavy.

“I’m sorry,” you say. “I should have told you that I kind of had a crush on my biology teacher when I was in high school.” Mr. Shaw’s eyes dark and deep like Castiel, he doesn’t tell you that you’re slurring your words, which you think is pretty nice of him.

“I guess it doesn’t matter now anyway,” you say. “Since I don’t have a wife anymore.” Don’t have a family anymore. You turn on your side and curl your legs to your chest. Don’t have a life anymore.

“I am sorry,” Castiel says again, but you know it’s not his fault just like it’s not God’s fault. You begged him for this, you wanted this. You left your family so you’d never have to show them what this life was like, the angels and the demons and the blood, so you’d never have to become like the Winchesters. You deserve this just as much as anybody else.

Mr. Shaw’s hands are on your back and you breathe out, closing your eyes. “Please,” you say, but you don’t say stop and you don’t say no. Castiel moving Mr. Shaw’s hands down your arms and over your chest, loosening your tie and unbuckling your belt, and you’re breathing faster now, swallowing back all the inhibitions that have caught in your throat. “Please,” you say, turning on your back, Mr. Shaw’s hands unbuttoning your shirt, running smooth across your skin.

“Is this what you need?” Castiel asks in Mr. Shaw’s voice.

And you say, “Yes,” leaning up to press your mouth to his.

***

Later, you won’t let Castiel see you cry. You lock yourself in the bathroom and turn on the water full blast, standing underneath the hot, biting spray with your hand over your eyes. You haven’t done this since you were a teenager, your father’s hand just as sharp as the words of the Bible on his tongue after he had caught you with the boy next door, kissing gently behind the shed in your backyard. Since he had beaten the taste right out of you.

Using Mr. Shaw like that, using his body, it’s worse than Castiel using yours because at least you asked for it, at least you believed in God with your whole heart, believed that he needed you to serve Him with everything you could give. At least you begged Castiel to take you. At least you wanted this, wanted him.

“Please don’t let him know,” you say when you feel Castiel behind you, standing underneath the spray, Mr. Shaw’s body dressed in all of Mr. Shaw’s clothing, the wet fabric pasted to muscle and skin.

“Please don’t let him find out,” you say. You won’t turn to look at him, even when his hands find yours, the feel of the strong fingers, the clothes against your naked back.

“He will not,” Castiel says, and presses a kiss to your shoulder blade, sealing the deal.


End file.
